


Warriors' Grit

by StellaNeminis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-15 05:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaNeminis/pseuds/StellaNeminis
Summary: We Go Down SwingingAs Sam and Dean take some downtime after dealing with the Darkness, they end up in way over their heads in another conflict. What should have been a run-of-the-mill hunt quickly turns into something far bigger when the Winchesters receive a letter from an unexpected sender.With no one on their side but a weakened angel and a testy demon, they raise their weapons to the enemy. Warriors’ Grit is a story of two brothers raised like soldiers, fighting against all odds and without fear.If they go down, they go down swinging.





	1. Back In Black

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I'm writing for my best friend's birthday. I've never tried writing a multi chaptered story, so I hope it's not gonna be horrible haha.

 

**AC/DC**

_Back in black I hit the sack_

_I've been too long I'm glad to be back_

_Yes I am_

_Let loose from the noose_

_That's kept me hanging about_

* * *

 

It wasn’t exactly Dean’s favorite way to spend time, but he believed it was very much a necessary thing to do because of his job. He was working out. AC/DC was blasting in his ears through his headphones, and Dean groaned as he started his umpteenth pushup, halting a second when his nose almost touched the floor, then pressing up, feeling his arm muscles working hard to lift the weight. His little brother, Sam, walked past the open door of his room and stopped, looking amused. A newspaper held in one hand and his laptop in the other, he walked in, a smile growing on his face.

“Three-hundred-ninety-four,” Dean bluffed as he did another pushup, “Three-hundred-ninety-five.” Sam laughed, and lightly kicked him in the gut. Dean rolled on his back, weary from the exertion, and pulled off his headphones. “Hiya, Sammy.”

“Since when do you work out, huh?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows. “You always laugh at me when I go for a run.”

Dean raised a finger at him as he got to his feet. “Running and working out is not the same,” he stated. “Running is very pointless if I’m not getting chased by some kind of monster, and I do not intend to do so if it’s not a hundred percent necessary, because I’m not a chicken, like you.”

Sam huffed indignantly and opened his mouth to protest, but Dean cut him off.

“Working out on the other hand makes me better at punching douchebags in the face. Now that is what I call improvement.” Dean grinned at his brother, whom rolled his eyes.

“You’ll regret laughing at me once a monster does outrun you,” he said, flipping open the newspaper. “Anyway, I caught us a case.”

Dean grabbed the paper out of his hands and read the headline: ‘ _Couple found dead in their home’_.

“The doors were locked, no signs of a break-in and, get this, the police reported a ‘weird smell; like rotten eggs’. I’m guessing they mean sulfur.”

Dean sighed, “Demons.” He threw the paper on his unmade bed and raked a hand through his sweaty hair. “I thought Crowley was keeping them on a short leash? We haven’t seen rogue demons like that in a while.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam pulled up a police report on his laptop, “it isn’t the first case either. Two weeks ago there was a similar incident two towns over. A family was slaughtered in their home, two young children and their parents, all dead.”

Dean glanced at the report. “Right there: ‘The coroner found traces of sulfur on the clothes of the deceased.’ You think it’s just one demon?”

Sam shrugged and closed his laptop. “I don’t know, but I think we should go check it out.”

Dean nodded, pursing his lips. “Let me take a shower first and then we’ll hit the road.”

_***_

The Impala pulled up at the curb and Dean turned off the engine. Its roar died down and the boys cranked open the doors. The entrance of the house was blocked with yellow tape that read ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS’.

“Looks abandoned,” Sam said, checking the area while Dean opened the trunk and grabbed his shotgun filled with rock salt rounds.

“Well, let’s do some breaking and entering, then.” He marched confidently up to the house, pulling his lock pick set from his pocket. Sam casually stood next to him, keeping an eye on the dimly-lit street as Dean picked the lock.

“Aaaand…” Dean pulled the tension wrench down, and the door opened. “We’re in.” He quickly scanned his surroundings to see if anyone was watching them, and then ducked under the tape to push past the door. “C’mon, Sammy.” Sam followed and closed the door behind them.

“Wow,” Sam muttered, “they didn’t mention this in the report…” The walls of the hallway were covered in bloody streaks. He looked closer, tracing his fingers over the marks. “Handprints?” he suggested.

His brother squinted, nodding before following the marks to the living room, his shotgun drawn. The living room was a mess: the couch was ripped and the coffee table was overturned, broken shards of glass covered the floor; the remainder of a flower vase. Here, too, there were smudges of blood; on the wall next to the dining room entrance, on the opened kitchen door, and on the column in the living room. Dean followed them, but found nothing.

“Well, I got nothing,” he said confusedly as he lowered his gun. “The hell is this? An artsy demon with a kink for finger painting?”

Sam shrugged, and walked over to the drawn outlines of the corpses. “Look at this,” he said, “how is this natural?” The bodies had been situated awkwardly; together the couple had formed the distinct shape of a letter.

Dean cocked his head, “L?” He sighed. “Nice freaking clue. Thanks, demon. Could be anyone,” he said irritably, “or anything, or anywhere!”

“Maybe it’s not a letter,” Sam proposed as he glanced around.

“Awesome! Even more options.” Dean walked along the lines. “Here, from this angle it’s a tent. And then from here it looks like math… I hate math. But if you look at it from there, it’s a really ugly V.”

Sam looked around, focusing on the strange clues the demon had left behind. Not only the bodies had been situated strangely, the streaks of blood on the walls and doors looked almost deliberate. “Don’t you think it’s weird that there’s blood all over the place, as if they didn’t die in this spot? But there are no dragging marks on the floor or some large stain of blood on the carpet in another place…” Sam mused, circling the crime scene again.

“What?” Dean replied smartly, frowning at him.

“Yeah, like the smudges aren’t made by these people while they were fighting or running away, but drawn on later. I think they really died in that spot.” Sam pointed at the chalk outlines. “I mean, look at it. The carpet is soaked in their blood. That spot is where they bled out, not somewhere else. So, why are the marks over here?” Sam asked as he traced the lines on the kitchen door. The inside of the kitchen looked clean and neat; as if there hadn’t been a fight in there.

“So you think the demon really does have a kink for finger painting?” Dean said amusedly. “Well, that’s wonderful. And how does that help us?”

“Look here,” Sam began. “They didn’t fight in the kitchen or in the dining room. Just over there. The demon wouldn’t have had to chase them; it’s too strong. It painted the marks. They must be trying to tell us something.” He closed the door and took a step back, looking at the horizontal marks.

“Well, Sherlock?” Dean shot after a second, crossing his arms. “Do you really think they would leave a clue like this? That’s sort of dumb… This ain’t no scavenger hunt, Sammy. This is homicide. I got no time for games.”

“It’s an E.” Sam walked back further, aligning the smudges through perspective. He walked back into the hallway, squinting at the marks. Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, shouldering his shotgun. “It says ‘RISE’,” Sam called out after a moment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I told you it was useless.” Dean sighed loudly, his shoulders lifting and falling as his breath left him. “So we got a weird-ass shape here and the word ‘RISE’ there. That doesn’t really help, now does it?”

“Well, what do you make of the ‘weird-ass shape’?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know, man. An arrow?”

Sam followed the supposed arrow with his eyes. He scanned the wall to which it pointed. It didn’t bear any more blood smudges. A broken picture frame laid on the floor next to the bookcase. The dresser looked neat and untouched. Sam walked over to the bookcase. Dozens of books stood alphabetized on the shelves. He saw ordinary novels and bigger books on health and anatomy. One of the victims must’ve been a doctor. He filed through the books, pushing them aside, but found nothing. He reached up to the DVD’s. Some of the films and series he knew, most of them  he did not. He trailed his fingers over the titles. _Paranormal Activity_ , _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , _Predator_ , _Prison Break_. He halted. An envelope was sitting between the two DVD’s.

He pulled out _Prison Break_ and picked  up the envelope. A smudge of blood marked its importance. He turned it over, and his heart skipped a beat. “S. Winchester,” he read. He looked at Dean, who frowned in confusion, and then back at the envelope. The name was spelled out on the front in a flourishing cursive, written with emerald-colored ink. Sam frowned at it, then ripped it open and pulled out a bloodied piece of paper.

“Dearest bunk-buddy.” Sam stopped abruptly, snapping his head up to his brother. “That’s what Lucifer called me.” He looked back to the letter, his eyes glued to the nickname as Dean dashed to get next to him. Sam’s eyes raced over the lines of the letter, seeing, but not fully processing the words. His hands trembled. Dean ripped the letter out of his hands and with a steady but strained voice, he started reading it aloud.

 

_Dearest bunk-buddy,_

_It’s getting quite lonely down here. I have to say that I miss your company. Or, well… I miss torturing your soul. It was my only form of entertainment, after all. Michael doesn’t make for a great roommate either. He isn’t very conversational these days; he’s practically an incoherent mess. Seriously, he’s sucking on his thumb right now. I haven’t seen him do that in eons. So, there’s no one down here to amuse me. Bummer._

_I do hope you haven’t forgotten about me, because I have set up a little scheme to break free from this custom-made prison cell. There are still demons that are loyal to me. They want me to sit on the throne of Hell, not that Scottish, paperwork-loving pushover Crowley. Demons aren’t made for rules and bureaucracy; they’re made to show the corruption of mankind, the flaws in Father’s creation. They are supposed to torture and kill in the worst ways imaginable. Breaking, wrecking and destroying is what they do!_

_I should know; I created them._

_And now, they’re turning back to me. Calling me ‘father’ or ‘Dark Prince’ or whatever. Pretty disconcerting, if you ask me. Point is that these loyalists are putting the band back together to break me free, and the plan is coming together pretty nicely. It won’t be long until I can stretch my legs and walk the earth once more._

_See you soon, Sammy. I’m counting down the days till we share a bunk again._

_Love,_

_Lucifer_

 

“Dean…” Sam whispered, his eyes darting across the page. He was visibly shaken by the letter. “He can’t– It’s impossible. The cage is- is inescapable, right?”

“Hey,” Dean said fiercely, grabbing Sam’s face in both his hands. Sam lowered the letter, his eyes wide and glossy. “We’re gonna figure this out, yeah? He won’t get out on my watch. We’re gonna find those demons and we’ll make sure to get some answers, alright?”

Sam blinked twice and nodded, swallowing hard, the muscles in his jaw popping under Dean’s fingers. “Yeah,” Sam breathed. “We’ll be fine.”

“Damn right,” Dean said firmly, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get outta here.”

Sam carefully slid the letter back into the envelope and pocketed it after Dean gave him a curt, reassuring nod, and they left the house.

With a roar, the engine of the Impala came to life, and they drove off, back to the bunker. It was a silent ride; Sam mostly stared out of the window, his brow furrowed and his leg bouncing. Dean even noticed him biting at his nails, an old habit that Dean had made him break a long time ago. With a sigh he turned up the radio, the song filling his head instead of the worrisome thoughts about the Devil. He drove at least twenty miles per hour faster than the speed limit, wanting to get back home as soon as possible. When he turned up the driveway that led to the bunker, Sam shifted in his seat, a disoriented look on his face, as if he had been in such deep thought that he hadn’t noticed the road flying by.

Dean steered his car down the dark tunnel that led to the garage and parked in the empty spot between two of the old cars that the Men of Letter’s had left behind. He killed the engine, but sat motionless in his seat for a second, listening to the ticking as it cooled down. Another sigh. He got out of the car and slammed the door shut while Sam was already jogging up the stairs, anxious to get his hands on some books. To learn more about the cage. To find answers.

Dean clenched his jaw and stroked a hand over the shiny black roof of the Impala. Ever since they’d stopped the Apocalypse he’d been convinced that Lucifer had been dealt with. That he’d never have to face the Devil again. Now he was back, and he would ruin their lives again. Losing Gabriel, Ellen and Jo; seeing Cas and Bobby get killed; Adam getting locked in the cage… It was all Lucifer’s fault.

And Sam… Sammy had been hit the worst. Decades of torture in Hell; his soul twisted and ripped almost beyond repair. A year walking around with no soul at all, without conscience or human feelings. Then a period of insanity: seeing him everywhere, no escape of the archangel who had tortured him unstoppably.

Dean didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t think about it. He dragged his hand over his jaw. “Son of a bitch…” he muttered. A cold feeling wrapped itself around his heart and he felt a stone settling in his gut.

What if Lucifer would really rise again? What if he got to Sam? What if he could somehow trick him into saying yes? What if, what if, what if…

Could there be a whole new Apocalypse? What would he do now that Michael wasn’t there to stop him? So many questions circled through his head, endlessly sparking new ones and sending his mood in a downwards spiral. For a moment he cradled his face in his hands as if it would help him think, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, multicolored shapes dancing in his vision.

He didn’t hear the light footsteps until they padded closer to him, socked feet sliding over the tiles. The corners of his mouth twitched up; he didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“Dean?” The low voice was thick with sleep, but the worry was evident in the gentle tone.

“Hey, Cas,” he muttered, lowering his hands as he blinked up at him. No matter how often he was confronted with it, Cas’s humanity still surprised him. His dark hair was wild and tangled, and his eyes looked soft even if they were clouded with concern. He was practically drowning in a sweater of which Dean was sure that it belonged to Sam; the sleeves went past his hands and the hem fell over the tops of his thighs. He was wearing Dean’s old sweats.

Dean smiled wearily, “How’re you feeling?”

Cas had recently discovered one of the many drawbacks of being human, or as Cas had called it: ‘a grand deficiency in the construction of mankind’, whatever that meant. He’d caught the flu.

Cas sniffed, rubbing at his eyes. “A little better.”

“Well, you look a mess. Did you get some sleep?” Dean had the urge to run his hands through Cas’s wild locks and smoothen them back into place. This hairstyle reminded him of the way Cas had been when he’d met him all those years ago; ruthless, demanding, and without compassion.

“A few hours. It’s still strange to me… Not very productive, to say the least. And dreams! I just don’t understand. Nothing makes sense in those…”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah? What’d you dream about?”

Cas shrugged and sniffed again, his runny nose slightly red. “I don’t remember. But you were in it. And Sam too.”

Another smile tugged at Dean’s lips. It was strange to see a grown-up man discovering those little things about life, about being human. He asked questions a little kid would ask, and Dean thought it was heartwarming to see the wonder in his eyes when he learned something new.

“Is something going on, Dean? Did you and Sam fight? You’re quiet.” Cas’s voice was soft and the worry from before was back in his eyes. Even as a human, Cas could still read Dean like a book, even if he couldn’t really understand him sometimes, he always saw it when something was off.

Dean heaved a deep sigh, wondering how to break the news. He couldn’t just say: ‘Hey, Cas, remember your brother Lucifer? The one who possessed you, started the Apocalypse and killed you that one time? The reason you’re feeling so weak right now? Yeah, he’s back.’

Surely that would go down well.

He looked around as he struggled to find words.

“We, uh, went on a  hunt – a demon hunt – and it was…kinda weird. We knew from the get-go that something was different about it. There was a word painted on the wall and we found a letter addressed to Sam.” Cas stared back at him, his gaze intense and maybe even a little scared. Dean swallowed thickly. “From Lucifer.”

Cas’s blue eyes widened in shock and his lips formed words but the sound wouldn’t come out, as if silence had wrapped a cord around his throat and pulled, pulled, pulled. He shook his head minutely, disbelief etched in his features. “But the cage is supposed to be…inescapable. It’s impossible.”

Dean grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it gently in hopes of giving him some comfort. “He’s not out. Not yet, at least.” Cas tilted his head, squinting at him in that familiar way: an upside-down V-shaped wrinkle appearing between his furrowed eyebrows, his eyes narrowed to slits. “There’re demons that are still loyal to him, they’re helping him somehow. I don’t know how they plan to open the cage.”

Cas shook his head to clear his mind. “Well,” he started, dragging a hand over his mouth. “There’s a multitude of ways. The breaking of the 66 seals was the most chaotic way, but they can’t repeat that: Lilith was the final seal and she’s dead. I’ve been told there’s a special spell, but only the archangels could perform it together, so that’s impossible too.”

“And we have the Horsemen’s rings,” Dean said.

A silence stretched between them as Cas thought, his eyes staring hard at Dean’s left shoulder, but unseeing, his focus turned inward.

“Come on,” Dean urged quietly, “Let’s go help Sam.”

“Seven,” Cas muttered randomly.

“What?” The blue eyes flicked back and forth, something clicking in the man’s mind. Dean could see the puzzle pieces falling into place, his eyes focusing back on Dean.

“Seven ways of opening the cage.” Cas turned on his heels and dashed to the stairs.

“Hey, wait up!” Dean followed Cas up the stairs, barely keeping up with him even though he was sick. When he reached the top – wheezing and panting for breath – he begrudgingly accepted that Sam was right and he should work on his stamina.

Cas moved from shelf  to shelf trailing his fingers over the spines of the ancient tomes. Sam stood at the table, a large book open in front of him. His eyes moving back and forth at lightning speed as he scanned the text. “Seven days, seven churches, seven parables, seven woes, seven trumpets, seven signs.” Cas pulled out a book as he raved on about the number seven. Dean followed him with his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe, still catching his breath. “Seven is a holy number. The number of divine perfection and completeness. A prime number only divisible by one and itself. It’s a lucky number.” He slammed the book down on the table and flipped it open.

“Cas, you’re not making any sense.” Dean walked over to him, watching how he leafed through the pages of the book.

“God created the cage to be the perfect prison for Lucifer. Perfection  is always seven. Always. There’s the seals, the rings, the angelic spell, possibly God’s own power… That’s four, so there must be three more ways.”

“We can’t know that for sure,” Sam said with a sigh. “Ten and twelve are considered holy numbers, too. And wouldn’t six be more logical? That represents sin and weakness. Ways to open the cage seem like weaknesses to me…”

“No, I’m sure,” Cas shot, “There are seven ways and if we figure out the last three we can prevent them from happening.”

“And what exactly are you looking for?” Dean glanced at the book Cas was reading. All he saw was gibberish; it was written in a strange language that Cas probably understood. And Sam too, the nerd.

“Anything about the cage.”

Dean sighed and pulled a book from one of the many shelves. He flipped it open. At least it was in English.

“Awesome,” he muttered to himself, and started reading.

_***_

Three hours later they were still sitting at the table with books scattered around them. Dean idly flipped pages, scanning them and slowly losing hope of finding something as the minutes ticked past. He’d read about the darkest spells and learned about a hundred ways to bind and kill people with magic, but not a single way to open Lucifer’s cage. Hell, he wasn’t even mentioned in any of the fifteen books Dean had combed through. He heaved a dramatic sigh and slammed the book shut. Sam startled and shot him a questioning look, but Cas was unfazed, still squinting at the pages as he followed the lines on the paper with his finger.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Dean said standing up from his seat. “I’m gonna grab some Indian takeout. You want some?” Dean knew that Sam loved Indian food, which was why he squashed his craving for a bacon cheeseburger.

“Yeah, I want the butter chicken and naan.”

“I know, Sam.” Dean looked at Cas, but he was still absorbed in his book. “Cas?” Dean prompted, and the angel looked up with blank, confused eyes. “What do you wanna eat?”

Cas frowned and rubbed at his jaw. “I don’t know; I’ve never had Indian food before.”

Dean smiled at him. “I’ll pick something for you.”

Cas nodded. “Thank you.”

Dean squeezed the man’s shoulder in passing and saw a smile tug at his lips as he did so. Sam’s raised eyebrow went unnoticed. Dean was already strolling down to the garage.

_***_

“Cas, it’s okay. Just eat it.”

“It smells funny.”

“It’s good, I promise.”

“What if it’s not?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just put it in your mouth!”

“Don’t use my father’s name in vain, thanks.”

“Cas…”

A sigh. Cas poked at the chicken korma as if it would come back to life at any given moment. He squinted at it and sniffed. “Sam told me about the spicy foods.”

Dean shot his brother a glare. Sam pretended not to have heard the discussion as he stuffed his mouth full of naan bread. Well, at least he was enjoying his dinner.

“So you don’t trust me?” Dean asked.

Cas tilted his head at him. “I do trust you, Dean.”

Dean pricked a piece of chicken from Cas’s plate and held it up to show him. “Here, huh?” He stuck it in his mouth. Chewed it. And swallowed it. “See? Nothing wrong with it. Perfectly fine. Now, eat.”

Sam sniggered quietly, and Dean kicked him in the shin under the table to shut him up. Right, Cas was behaving like a toddler, but it was understandable to be skeptic of things you’ve never done before. Even if that thing was just eating Indian food.

Cas warily stabbed a piece of chicken on his fork and raised it to his mouth. He hesitated, sniffed it again. Dean raised an eyebrow at him and Cas quickly bit the piece of his fork. He chewed slowly. Dean watched the frown disappear and Cas’s blue eyes lit up.

“It’s good,” he said, taking another bite.

“Told you.” Dean pulled out his own dinner: beef vindaloo curry. Maybe Sam had told Cas about this. He smiled to himself, remembering the first time he’d taken Indian take-out back to the motel when Dad had been out on a hunt.

Sam had been just a little boy and he’d easily become hooked on the butter chicken. When he’d tried Dean’s vindaloo, however… The twisted look on his face was forever etched in Dean’s mind as one of the funniest faces he’d ever pulled. Even better was that they had been all out of milk and Sam had hopped around the kitchen like a crazed rabbit looking for something to save his burning throat.

“What are you smiling at?” Sam asked with a knowing look, his eyes were narrowed and the corners of his mouth twitched as he tried to suppress his own smile.

“Nothing,” Dean quipped, “Just your vindaloo misadventure. Did you tell Cas about that?”

Sam chugged a piece of naan at his brother. “Shut up, it was your fault!”

Cas quizzically tilted his head, waiting for an explanation. Dean laughed, dodging the naan. “You stole from my plate! It’s not my fault you’re a baby.”

“I’m not a baby, vindaloo is just made for stupid people who like to burn their insides,” Sam said, petulantly turning up his nose as Dean scoffed.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t help it that you’re so hyper-sensitive.”

Sam gave him an affronted look. “I’m not hyper-sensitive!”

“Yelled he, insulted by spicy food,” Dean countered teasingly. Sometimes Sam could be incredibly childish.

“Dude, if you hadn’t screwed up your taste-buds you’d know that that stuff is a health hazard,” Sam said, pointing his fork at Dean’s vindaloo.

“Don’t insult my food!” Dean said in mock horror.

“You’ll find that I’m right when you hit the can tomorrow.” Sam slammed open another book as Dean laughed. Meanwhile Cas looked at them both with confusion.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, turning to Dean for answers.

“Hmm?”

“Hit a can? Why?” Cas seemed to be genuinely confused. Dean exchanged a look with his brother and they burst into laughter. Cas was still as clueless as ever and he waited patiently for an explanation, not knowing that it was a pretty awkward question.

“Well, um,” Dean grinned awkwardly at Cas, who squinted suspiciously in his direction. “It’s, you know, when you… use the bathroom?”

“I don’t understand,” Cas replied flatly. “Use the bathroom for what purpose?”

Dean waved his hand dismissively and stuffed his mouth full of vindaloo, giving Sam a look as to say ‘it’s your problem now’ as he chewed.

Sam cleared his throat. “It’s a way of saying that you used the toilet,” he replied awkwardly. Cas rolled his eyes at this.

“Why must humans be so cryptic about the excretion of fecal matter?”

“Cas, I’m eating,” Dean grumbled, his mouth still half-full.

Cas frowned at him, taking in Dean’s reactions with a scrutinizing gaze. Dean grew more uncomfortable as the silent seconds passed, Cas seemed to be processing the newfound information and smirked a bit when Dean squirmed in his seat. “Does it bother you?” he asked with a hint of amusement.

“Yes!” Dean said fiercely. “I just wanna enjoy my food without thinking about where it’s gonna end up. ”

“Alright,” Cas replied after a second of watching him irritably chew on a piece of beef. He silently resumed his own meal, looking guilty for some reason.

Dean sighed quietly and shoveled down the remainder of his dinner, wanting to do something else than reading those stuffy books.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asked when Dean stood up from the table.

“I’m gonna call Crowley. He might know something about those demons that are helping Lucifer.”

“Do we have to involve him?” Sam sighed, flipping open a new book.

“He’s the King of Hell. His demons are helping Lucifer. He hates Lucifer. Clearly he’s gonna wanna help us. Why would we not involve him?”

Dean stepped out the room and pulled out his phone, dialing Crowley’s number. It only rang twice before he picked up.

“Squirrel! To what do I owe the honour of your call?” Crowley answered, sounding unimpressed and smug as always.

“We got a situation down here that sadly involves you,” Dean  said, “Could you come to the bunker?”

“Anytime, dearest,” Crowley said from behind Dean, already having teleported.

Dean startled. “Dude, could you stop doing that?”

Crowley smirked and ignored him, turning around to move to the large tables. “Hello, boys,” he said to Cas and Sam.

Sam looked up, a wild sort of look in his eyes, hungry for knowledge. “Crowley! You need to help us. Lucifer is trying to break out of the cage. Your demons are helping him, we don’t know how yet, but we’re trying to figure out how to stop them. We’re looking for ways to open the cage. Cas says there are seven of them. We’ve figured out about the rings, the seals, the–”

“Moose, it’s lovely to see you too! Why yes I would like a glass of scotch, thank you very much.” Crowley placed himself in a chair with regal semblance, crossing his ankle over his knee and leaning against the backrest to shoot Sam a mischievous look.

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed his chair back, letting the legs scrape across the floor to make the most annoying sound possible. Dean winched slightly at the sound and saw Cas do the same, even going as far as to take a step away from the high-pitched shrieking.

“Sure, Crowley… Whatever.”

Dean had to hold back a chuckle when Crowley received Sam’s infamous bitchface, as Dean had dubbed it. His nostrils would flare like an angry dog’s and his eyes would narrow before being set in a ‘done-with-your-shit’ stare. Sometimes he would give a sassy remark and a fake smile or sometimes he would press his lips together in a displeased line to hold back several death threats. It even seemed to make Crowley uncomfortable. Or maybe the mention of Lucifer had made him uncomfortable and he was just being a douche to get a chance to recompose himself. Dean stuffed his phone back in his pocket and walked over to stand next to Cas. In the corner Sam was noisily pouring him a glass of scotch while grumbling under his breath. When he was done, he marched back to Crowley and slammed the glass down on the table.

“Your Majesty,” Sam bit, before walking around the table and ungracefully plopping down in his chair.

“Thank you, Moose,” Crowley quipped with a self-satisfied smirk. “Now, tell me about Lucifer.”

Sam ignored Crowley, pointedly flipping a page in his book. Dean sighed and rolled his eyes at his brother.

“Lucifer has a plan to escape the cage again,” Cas said before Dean could start. “Your demons are somehow communicating with him. They’re cooperating. It’s only a matter of time until he escapes.”

“And what, pray tell, would this elaborate scheme of his be? Surely, I would have noticed if my demons went missing. None of them have been anywhere they shouldn’t have been. I keep close tabs, nowadays.” Crowley took a sip from his drink.

“We don’t know yet. That’s why we called you for help,” Cas said shortly, making Crowley roll his eyes.

“So, you haven’t a clue what’s going on and you don’t know what you’re looking for, yet you still dare to interrupt my council meeting?” Crowley’s voice got louder as he spoke. “If you haven’t noticed, my position as _King_ is somewhat precarious at the moment. I can’t afford to skip off whenever you call! I am not your bloody pet!”

“Hey,” Dean snapped, “That’s enough. You know damn well that this is Cas, not Lucifer. He’s not to blame for what Lucifer did to you. Don’t you yell at him.” Cas looked at Crowley, hurt written on his face. “Now, you came to help,” Dean continued. “So, help.”

They shared a short stare-down, Crowley scowling petulantly and Dean feeling like he was scolding a toddler.

“Fine,” Crowley said finally. “I’ll help you with the Devil.”

“Good,” grunted Dean. “Tell us what you know about opening the cage.”

Crowley downed his scotch in one go.  “Well,” he started, “you are correct. There are indeed seven ways of opening the thing.”

“How can you be sure?” Sam asked skeptically.

“You’re looking at the wrong books, love.” Crowley said as he picked up one of the books on the table. He studied the cover. “If you want to find a way to free Lucifer, why would you look to texts written by Christians who wet their pants at the mere thought of the Devil? Obviously you should turn to satanic scripts written by people who’ve done their research on these matters.”

Dean could see Sam chewing on the inside on his cheek as he slowly shut his book.

“Don’t look so down, Moose, it doesn’t become you. I – the King of Hell – do own the largest library on this subject, you know? Having done a little research myself, I’ll be back in a jiffy with the…more interesting novels.”

 With that, Crowley disappeared.

“He’s a freaking jerk.” Sam pushed his books away and crossed his arms over his chest.

“He does have a point,” said Cas quietly.

Dean leaned back against the table and looked at Cas. “But he doesn’t have to be a bitch about it. There was no reason to yell at you like that.”

“Or to make me his waiter,” grumbled Sam.

“Actually, I thought that was funny,” Dean quipped.

Sam huffed. “Yeah, I’m still laughing about it. Hilarious.”

Dean chuckled and patted Sam on the shoulder.

Crowley reappeared and slammed a stack of books on the table, startling Dean, who jumped up.

“Dude, I told you to stop doing that!” he yelled.

“You did no such thing,” Crowley smirked as he laid out his books. “You asked me if I _could_ stop. Now, I could do that…” He handed Dean a book. “But I won’t.”

Dean gave him a stare that said ‘really?’, and snatched the black leather-bound book from Crowley’s hands. An upside-down pentagram was embossed on the cover. Dean unfastened the silver clasp and opened it.

It was filled with texts in different languages. Most of them, Dean had never seen before. But he recognized Latin, Enochian and Japanese script. It looked to be a bundle of texts and spells from all around the world. Written by different people, but using the same ink. Intricate drawings of symbols and patterns showed how to perform spells Dean had never seen. The results: lots of blood, disembowelment, blindness, paralysis and many disturbing forms of torture.

As he leafed through the book, and became less distracted by its contents, he noticed there was something off about the paper and ink.

“The hell is this?” he asked Crowley, putting the book on the table and wiping his hands on his jeans.

Crowley hummed. “That, squirrel, is the Codex Diaboli. The cover is made out of the skin of a black python and the pages are made of goat hides.” Crowley traced his fingers over the thing like it was his most prized possession. Dean pulled a disgusted face and exchanged a look with Sam, who quickly put the book down that he was holding.

“Oh,” Crowley continued, “And it’s written in demon blood.”

“It’s an abomination,” Cas growled, taking a step back from the thing.

“Oh, yes, it’s terrifically evil,” Crowley grinned as he flipped through the pages. “And it holds all the answers.”

“Yeah?” Sam pushed, turning the book to have a better look at the text.

Crowley  found the page he was looking for and smoothened his hand over the words. Dean couldn’t understand most of it. It was mostly written in gibberish, except for one part in Latin at the bottom of the page.

_Quod expulit nunc admittet adversarius ibit_.

Dean frowned, mouthing the words as he racked his brain for a translation. He usually left translating to Sam, who could read ancient texts as is they were written in English. That which expelled…will now admit. The adversary…walks? Dean shrugged and waited for an explanation.

Crowley turned the book back, to Sam’s annoyance. “This is an old Aramaic text about Lucifer’s cage. Dates back to the time when Rome was founded and King Midas went round turning rocks to gold. Loosely translated, it says the following…” Crowley cleared his throat and started citing.

 

_The brightest one defied_

_Thus cast down by his kin_

_Locked into a prison_

_To contemplate his sin_

_Brothers and the father_

_Bind corruptor of Cain_

_Seven ways to pardon_

_None of which were plain_

 

_Horsemen bearing rings_

_White, red, black and pale_

_The keys to his escape_

_Lope away from jail_

 

_His father holds the power_

_To open up the door_

_All three eldest brothers_

_Free prisoner of war_

 

_Seals that could be broken_

_Damned spell to end confine_

_Set of keys held by a saint_

_Discharge the serpentine_

 

_A means of liberation_

_A steel twin and its foe_

_Reunite  opponents_

_He rises from below_

 

_Quod expulit_

_Nunc  admittet_

_Adversarius ibit_

 

Dean dragged a hand over his mouth. It was all a bit cryptic, but they could definitely work with that. Sam seemed to be thinking hard on the text.

“So, it says there’s seven ways. It names the rings, God’s power, the archangels, the seals...” Sam looked down at the notes he’d taken, spinning his pen between his fingers. “A ‘damned spell’ and a ‘set of keys held by a saint’… That’s Saint Peter, right?”

“At the time, the Keys of Heaven didn’t belong to Saint Peter yet, but yes, those are the keys.” Crowley opened another book, immediately flipping to a page with a drawing. Dean recognized Jesus and Saint Peter immediately.  It was the moment that Jesus had handed him the Keys of Heaven.

“The story about Saint Peter was never complete,” Crowley continued. “There’s always a key missing in the stories.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean? There’s only two keys mentioned in the Bible.”

“Ah, yes,” Crowley hummed. “‘On this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of Heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in Heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in Heaven.’,” recited Crowley. “Matthew 16.”

Dean scoffed. “Did you just quote the Bible at us?” Crowley shot him a look, and Dean backed down, swallowing the jokes he wanted to make.

Cas cocked his head in confusion. “There’s a golden key to the gates of Heaven, and a silver key to the crypts beneath the Vatican. There is no third key,” he remarked.

“That’s where you’re wrong, feathers. The silver key holds the power to bind in Hell. The key to the crypts of the Vatican is made of brass.” Crowley pointed out the key ring in Jesus’s hand. It bore three keys: gold, silver and brass.

“So, we need to find Saint Peter’s keys, then?” Dean asked disbelievingly. Of course they would have to chase down some ancient artifact that hadn’t been seen in ages. Something that might not even exist anymore.

“Of course not,” Crowley scoffed. “Those keys are kept in the Vatican. No ordinary demon could cross grounds that holy. They bless that room three times a day and it’s guarded at all times by trained exorcists.”

Dean sighed. At least they wouldn’t have to rob the Vatican. Cas would’ve flipped his shit. He could feel the relieved shudder leave Cas as their arms brushed together. He hadn’t yet noticed how Cas was leaning on him, but now he could clearly see how tired and weak the angel truly was.  

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about that then,” Sam said, ever the positive one.

“What about the damned spell?” Cas asked quietly. He sounded a lot sicker than he had a couple hours ago. He shouldn’t have stayed up to research with them.

“You alright?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded. “I’m fine.” He was obviously annoyed by his weakness, and didn’t want the others to know. But he couldn’t hide from Dean. He could clearly see Cas wasn’t fine, but he decided to ignore it for now.

Crowley raised his eyebrows at the short interaction, but Sam shook his head, telling him silently to drop it. Crowley shrugged. “Obviously the damned spell is in the Book of the Damned. I don’t have to spell that out for you, do I?”

Dean sat down in his chair and threw his feet up on the table, allowing Cas to sit down without attracting too much attention to his fatigue. He did so, throwing Dean a thankful smile. “Rowena has the book, so we’ve got that one covered too, right?” Dean said.

“Yes, Mother can keep that safe. With that book she’s nigh unbeatable.”

Dean couldn’t help but notice how pissed off Crowley sounded, knowing that his witch mother had given him the slip and was off sipping tea somewhere as she flipped through the Book of the Damned. Rowena might’ve been a little crazy, but Dean couldn’t deny that he liked her and missed her witty remarks.

“You should call her. Give her a heads-up,” Sam said absently. He was still staring at his notes. The last part of the poem seemed to have made little sense to him. He traced over the lines he’d jotted down, something Dean had seen him do too many times before when he was thinking hard.

“You know, that last part could mean anything,” Sam huffed. He dropped into his chair and held the notes in his hands, drumming his pen against the edge of the table.

Crowley too set himself down in his chair, managing to look swanky just through his posture. “Most of the poem is fairly clear,” he said. “It’s the last bit that is still a matter of some speculation. Some say it refers to another set of keys used by God to lock Lucifer up. Some say it refers to the seal of Solomon, a steel ring that expels demons. But Lucifer is no demon, so that is a load of baloney.”

Crowley folded his hands together, and Dean could feel that he was preparing to tell a dramatic story with a lot of unnecessary jazz. He rolled his eyes. “Can you get to the point?”

Crowley gave him an affronted look. “Patience, squirrel. Anyhow, I believe that it refers to two relics that were lost for a long time. The actual swords that Michael and Lucifer used in their final battle.”

Dean turned his hand in a questioning gesture. “What do you mean? I thought we were the swords?” He hadn’t forgotten the time when Zachariah had  tried to make him Michael’s vessel. That douchebag was still one of the  things he’d hated most. Even after the Leviathans, Cain and Amara. That asshat had managed to push Dean’s buttons like no other. He’d made him hate classic rock. He’d made him eat salads. He’d made him drive a Prius!

“He said actual swords, Dean, not metaphorical.” Sam pulled Dean from his thoughts.

“What?”

Sam sighed exasperatedly. “We are the metaphorical swords. There’s a dif- You know what? Never mind. What about the swords, Crowley?”

Crowley leaned back in his chair and started to explain.

Apparently, Michael hadn’t gone into battle with just his famous lance. He’d also carried a powerful sword: Datoriusti, the giver of justice. It was forged by the Greek god Hephaestus, the blacksmith of the Gods. Hephaestus had forged Lucifer’s  sword Clarissimus, the brightest, years ago, and had managed to create an unbreakable sword that was just as powerful. Once Michael had beaten and caged Lucifer, he was to seal the cage forever using the swords. After that, he had taken the swords and broken them in half. The pieces were scattered in the four winds.

The only way to make them whole again was to bring all pieces together and chant the spell.

Dean raked a hand through his hair. “That sounds like a lot of trouble. You said they’ve been lost for centuries?”

“No, I acquired three of the four pieces through deals with hunters over the years,” Crowley smirked to himself. “I told them they wouldn’t go to Hell if they found me a piece…” The little chuckle told Dean enough about the hunters’ fate.

“What about the last piece?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“The blade of Michael’s sword was found in Valhallfonna, Spitsbergen, the handle at the bottom of Lake Vostok, Antartica. Lucifer’s blade was found atop mount Fuji in Japan. The only piece missing is the handle of Clarissimus.” Crowley  picked up a scroll of parchment and rolled it out on the table. It was a map of the world. Three red X’s marked the locations he’d just mentioned.

“The last piece is in the West,” Cas said, bending over the table to point at the map. “Logically, it would be in the Western United States. These locations  are all in the far perimeter of the chart.” Cas’s eyes darted across the map. Dean could see that he knew something and was trying to pry it from his memory. The human forgetfulness was something he wasn’t used to, he was grinding his teeth together and the upside-down V appeared again on his brow.

“Cas?” Dean pushed when he didn’t continue. He obviously had something to say.

Cas’s eyes snapped up to him, looking a little wild. “I’ve heard of this before. I know I have. I just…can’t remember.” He sat back, disappointment clear on his face. Dean patted him lightly on the shoulder.

“That’s okay, Cas. You’ll remember.”

Cas pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his hands and folded his arms over his chest. He was shivering. A trickle of sweat was running down the back of his neck and his skin was pale except for the flush on his cheeks. His fever was rising again.

“You should get some rest,” Dean voiced, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Cas opened his mouth to protest, but Dean cut him off. “We need you to get better, Cas. It seems we’ve got a crazy ride ahead of us, and we need all the hands we got, okay? You can’t fight like this.”

Cas nodded. “Okay, Dean.”

“We’ll check this thing out in the morning. I’m guessing we’re a couple steps ahead of Lucifer. We’ll find that piece before they do.” Dean stood up from his seat. “So get some rest. Get better.”

Cas rose silently and swayed on his spot for a moment, blinking as the dizziness overcame his. His hand shot to the edge of the table for support.

“Cas?” Dean asked worriedly.

“I’m fine.” The reply was strained and a little angry. Cas recovered quickly and took a deep breath. He threw Dean an apologetic smile. “I’m fine,” he repeated in a gentler tone. Dean nodded. His hand slid off Cas’s shoulder as the angel turned and headed for his room. Just before he disappeared down the hallway, he looked back over his shoulder. “Goodnight,” he called.

Dean smiled. “Night, Cas.”

Sam called out a ‘good night’ and Crowley bid him good night with a  nod, like a proper king should. Dean watched as Cas shuffled out of sight, the hems of his pant legs  dragging over the floor. He huffed amusedly and turned back to the others.

“We should hit the hay too, Sam. I think we’ve got a long drive to the Far West tomorrow.”

Sam nodded, finished the note he was jotting down, and rose from his chair. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and Dean knew he was about to make a snarky comment. Sam gathered his things and held them close to his chest, then he turned to Crowley.

“By your leave, Your Majesty?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and waved his hand at Sam. “Yes, Moose, you’re dismissed. I would hate to rob you of your beauty sleep.”

Sam bowed dramatically and walked past Dean, chuckling. Dean clapped him on the back. “Night, bitch.”

“Good night, jerk.”

Without another word, Sam too disappeared down the hallway. Crowley shook his head at the interaction. He checked his watch.

“Well, squirrel, I trust you can keep my books safe. I have to get back to that meeting, they’ve been waiting for a while.”

Dean nodded. “Sure. I suppose you’ve got a lot to discuss. If you find anything out, give me a call, yeah?”

“I’ll never pass up on the opportunity to hear your sweet baritone, Dean,” he teased, and before Dean could respond, he was gone.

Dean shook his head, snickering. “Son of a bitch…” With a sigh he looked back at the table. Books laid scattered across the surface, some opened, some stacked, mostly just a mess. He went about putting the useless ones back in their spots. They had to organize in some way if they wanted to make progress. He quietly sang the words to his favorite song as he shoved a thick tome back in place.

He was relieved that they’d found a lead so quickly. Usually it took days, sometimes weeks before they found a little hope. Sammy would’ve gone mad if they hadn’t found something in so long.

_“Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear,”_ Dean sang. He rolled up the map and laid it aside. He stacked the remaining books and regarded his work proudly.

They’d locate the sword piece in the morning, and then they’d get it before Lucifer would. Really, there was nothing to worry about. Sounded like a milk run.

_“Ramble on!”_ Dean belted out, _“Sing my song, gonna work my way round the world.”_ He turned off the lights and headed for his bedroom with a spring in his step, ignoring Sam’s call to shut up.

They’d be fine this time. He just knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm currently working on the next chapter, and it should be up by Tuesday. 
> 
> Please leave me a comment with your opinion. It's much appreciated! 
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Stella


	2. Hot Blooded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! I finished it at 2am and it's not beta read, so if there's any mistakes, let me know.

**Foreigner**

_You don't have to_ _read my mind,_

 _to know what I_ _have in mind._

* * *

 

A bird chirped a melancholy melody from where it sat in a tree that gently swayed back and forth as the breeze ruffled its leaves. Cas was standing on a neatly kept lawn, flowerbeds blooming in a hundred different colors around him. Colors a human eye would never be able to see. Cas looked up at the sky. The autistic man’s kite was still soaring on the wind, and he smiled happily as he watched its tail dance.

Cas was in Heaven. He knew it instantly. Though something seemed different about it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He moved forward, feeling the grass flatten beneath his shoes as he stepped on it. The smells were different. The petunias smelled sweeter and the roses were somehow not quite what they used to be. That was strange, as this heaven never changed.

A voice called out for him. It was coming from the garden shed, just at the edge of the lawn. It spoke his name over and over again, beckoning him to come. Cas decided to have a look, and walked towards the shed, his hand brushing over the flower heads as he passed by. They didn’t feel the same. They were softer, less textured. He reached the door and pushed down the handle. A bright light greeted him, almost blinded him as he opened the door. He blinked profusely and stepped inside. The door fell shut behind him with a soft click. As his eyes adjusted, Cas spotted a figure sitting behind a desk, his hands folded in front of him.

“Castiel,” he said in a deep voice, “come.”

Cas stepped forward. The carpet was rough but familiar and the smell of chemicals intensified as his feet struck against it. The room gave off a rich, corporate feel with its leather armchairs and simple, practical decor.

“Raphael.” Cas greeted the archangel with a short nod. He was supposed to be dead. Cas had made sure of that himself. The only reasonable explanation for this situation was that Cas was reliving a memory. Raphael’s smile looked fake and emotionless as he gestured for Cas to take a seat in the chair opposite him. Cas slowly sank back in the leather upholstery as his eyes flitted over the map in front of Raphael. Half of it was covered with files and the other half was blurry. The lines swam across the parchment as Cas tried to focus. It resembled a connect-the-dots puzzle. The ones in the newspaper that Sam solved sometimes.

Cas remembered this meeting, but it had been a long time ago. It had to have been some time during the eighteenth century.

“Zachariah has told me you’ve repented, Castiel?” Raphael asked seriously. Cas couldn’t remember what he had done that required penance, but he’d learned from Dean that sometimes if you wanted to know something, you had to lie, even if that was sinful.

“Yes, sir,” Cas replied boldly, his voice strong and unwavering. Raphael only nodded in reply. He wasn’t one to waste too many words, especially not to lower tier soldiers.

Raphael stood up from his seat and moved to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “Although you stepped out of line by talking back to your superior, I think what you said to Zachariah was very much true. We do need to ensure the safety of Heaven’s weapons.” He looked over his shoulder, his dark eyes pinning Cas to his chair. “No more insubordination, Castiel.”

Cas nodded shortly. “Yes, sir,” he said again. Raphael seemed to think for a moment, his eyes scanning Cas as if he was trying to detect falsehood. He pursed his lips and moved back to the desk. He cleared away the files, stacking the parchment in the corner of the desk. The map suddenly became a lot less blurry to Cas. He could see the lines and shapes settling as Raphael smoothened out the map.

“As you seem to care much about Heaven, and this was your idea, I have a special mission for you,” Raphael spoke. “I want you to safeguard Heaven’s most powerful weapons, Castiel.”

“Me?” Cas blurted, feeling confused. He had no memory of doing so.

“Indeed.” Raphael opened the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of ink and a black-feathered quill. Without another word he unstoppered the bottle and dipped the tip of the quill in the ink. “You will have to travel to four locations,” he spoke as he started marking them down. “One in every cardinal direction: north, east, south and west.” With precise strikes of his quill, he wrote an X on the northern, eastern and southern locations. Cas shifted in his seat in anticipation of the western location. He squinted at the map, trying to bring it in better focus.

Raphael dipped his quill in the ink once more, and slowly scraped off the excess ink before he finally marked the final location. A shock of recognition went through Cas’s body and a pleased smirk appeared on his lips.

Death Valley, California.

He hadn’t remembered the location last night, but he’d know that it’s been locked somewhere in his memory. He sprang up from his seat. He had to tell Dean about this.

“Castiel?” Raphael called as Cas marched to the door. He could hear the heavy footsteps of the archangel as he followed him to the door. “Castiel!” he repeated more firmly.

Castiel tried the door handle, but it jammed. The door wasn’t budging. A sharp sting of fear raced down his spinal cord. He had to tell Dean. It was of the utmost import! They could stop Lucifer with this information! He span around, expecting Raphael, but what he saw was something completely different.

Hellfire raged through the office, consuming everything in its path. Cas could feel boils forming on his skin as it burnt the carpet underneath his feet and he hissed as he watched them form on his hands. Raphael had disappeared, but someone else was standing in his place. A sharp gust of wind shook the flames and blew through Cas’s hair. The man was merely a silhouette against the bright light of the fire, but Cas knew instantly who it was by the towering shadow of his luminous white wings: Lucifer. His eyes glowed red as he gazed down at Cas with a raised eyebrow.

“You can’t stop me, Cas,” he said matter-of-factly, amusement dripping from his voice. “You’ll never stop me. I will get exactly what I want.”

“No!” Cas screamed over the roar of the fire. “No, I won’t let you escape! I won’t let you hurt Sam and Dean!”

Lucifer hummed and stepped closer to him, unaffected by the fire. Cas could see him clearly now. His malicious smirk widened into a grin. “What are you gonna do, baby brother? You’re weak! You’re useless! You can’t even take care of yourself.” Lucifer took a step aside, revealing a figure behind him. Cas’s breath hitched in his throat.

Lucifer sneered. “How were you planning on protecting the Winchesters?”

It was Dean. He was strung to the ceiling of the office, meat hooks buried deep in his shoulders. Blood trickled from the wounds, painting patterns across his scarred chest and abdomen. With a groan, he lifted his head.

“Cas?” His voice was low and raspy, hoarse from screaming in pain.

Cas tried to push past Lucifer, but he was held back. “Dean!” he yelled, wrestling against Lucifer’s strong grip. The archangel let out a mocking, throaty laugh. “Dean!” yelled Cas again. Dean struggled in his bonds, and blood gushed from his shoulders in a steady flow. The shackles that kept his arms up rattled around his wrists as he pulled.

“Don’t! You’re hurting yourself!” Cas cried. He panted from exertion as he threw his weight forward, hoping to make Lucifer stumble, but it was no use. He was far stronger than Cas.

“You can never save him, Castiel,” Lucifer hissed in his ear.

“Dean!” screamed Cas.

“You cannot stop me. And if you try? This right here,” he pointed to Dean, who sagged against his bonds, the meat hooks ripping through his muscles with an agonizing sound, “This is what I’ll do to him.”

“No!” Cas roared, throwing himself forward once again. “You won’t ever get out. I will guard them. I will watch over them as I always have.” He bared his teeth at his brother, pinning him with a glare of his own. “They’re my family,” he said firmly.

Lucifer smiled at him. “That’s cute,” he said sniggering. “But, you see, if you’re a Winchester… You must burn.”

He forcefully shoved Cas into the fire and he landed at Dean’s feet. The clothes burned off his body as he screamed. He’d never felt such profound pain before. His body was shaking all over as it fought against the heat. He could faintly hear Dean calling his name as he thrashed around.

“Cas! Hey, Cas, c’mon! Snap out of it already!”

Sweat ran down his face and back, his throat was hurting and his skin was burning.

“Shhh, Cas! It’s okay.”

A cool hand touched his forehead, his cheek, his neck. Cas leaned into the touch. He was desperate to stop the burning. His hands came up to grasp around for more of that little relief.

“Cas, wake up! You’re dreaming.”

What?

Confusedly, Cas finally managed to open his eyes, and he was met with the sight of a very concerned Dean. He was holding onto Dean’s arm with both his hands, keeping his hand pressed into his neck.

“You okay, buddy?” Dean asked as he threw the sheets off of Cas. “You were yelling in your sleep. I think you were having some kind of fever dream.”

“Death Valley, California,” Cas blurted quickly, lest he forgot.

Dean frowned at him. “What?”

“That’s where the handle of Clarissimus is hidden.”

Dean helped him sit up in his bed. “How do you know?” he asked, surprised at the sudden information. “Take off the sweater, dude, you’re burning up.”

“I remembered it,” Cas explained as he pulled at his sweater. “Raphael told me about it a long time ago.” His head got stuck in the hole of the sweater and Dean helped him pull it off as he fought back a smile. Cas’s hair stuck up in every direction.

“So,” Dean said as he threw the sweater on the floor, “Why were you yelling?”

Cas adjusted the shirt he’d worn under the sweater. It was sweat-soaked and slightly uncomfortable. “The dream changed suddenly. Lucifer was there. He said he cannot be stopped.”

Dean huffed as he handed Cas the glass of water from his night stand. “We’ll see about that. We’ve done it before, we can do it again.” Cas greedily chugged down the water, the cool liquid soothing the pain in his throat as he drank. When he was done, Dean took the empty glass from his hands and placed it back on the nightstand.

“Dean,” Cas prompted, his voice soft with hesitation. Dean turned back to him, raised eyebrows inciting him to talk. Cas sighed.

“What is it, Cas?” Dean pushed.

“In my dream, Lucifer showed me you,” Cas said. He fixed Dean with a serious stare before he continued. “You looked just the way you did when I found you in Hell all those years ago.” Dean frowned, but otherwise remained silent as he waited for Cas to continue. “He said he’d do that to you again if we tried to stop him.”

Dean sighed and shifted on the bed, his hand squeezing Cas’s knee in comfort. “It’s just a dream. Nothing more. You’re just worried after what you heard today. Cas, Lucifer can’t get to you. He’s still locked up in that cage without any way to hurt us.”

Cas paused for a moment, not wanting to pose his theory and upset Dean, but he had no choice. They had to consider every possibility when it came to Lucifer. He swallowed thickly before looking back at Dean. “Maybe the cage is still damaged. That’s how he reached Sam last time.”

“Chuck and Amara fixed that when they locked him back in,” Dean said calmly. To anyone else, there would have been no sign of worry, but Cas felt the minute twitch of Dean's fingers against his knee.

“We don’t know that,” Cas said quietly.

“Of course they did! They’re not stupid. Chuck knew about the damage.”

“What if they didn’t? What if he’s in my head and he’s toying with me? He knows me, Dean. He possessed me,” argued Cas.

“All the more reason to make sure he stays locked up. That son of a bitch isn’t getting out of there any time soon. Not as long as I’m around.” Dean pushed off the bed and started pacing. Cas’s chest constricted as he looked at Dean, he seemed to be a lot more worried now. Dean dragged a hand over his jaw like he often did when he was upset.

“They must’ve fixed the cage…” Dean muttered more to himself than to Cas. Cas stood up from his bed, his legs slightly shaking with effort. He grabbed Dean by the shoulder to make him stop pacing, and gave him his best reassuring smile when he saw Dean’s concerned eyes.

“Let’s not fret over it,” he said. “I trust you’re right about Chuck fixing the cage. One wouldn’t leave the Devil unconfined.”

The muscles in Dean’s jaw popped as he swallowed. After a beat, he nodded, but the worry was still deeply etched in his features. “Yeah…”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Cas said sincerely as he removed his hand from Dean’s shoulder. Dean huffed, a hint of amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m always upset about something, Cas. Don’t worry about it.”

Cas smiled wistfully as he watched Dean move to the doorway. The light in the hallway darkened him to a backlit silhouette. Dean turned, speaking over his shoulder. “We’ll leave at first light,” he said. Cas saw that he was looking at the closed door of Sam’s bedroom, the worry plain in his eyes. He wanted to tell him that everything would be alright, that they’d get the sword piece tomorrow and that Lucifer would never walk again, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t want to make false promises. Dean would see right through them anyway.

“Alright, then,” he said finally.

Dean threw him a sad smile. “Alright,” he echoed back. For a few seconds, neither of them moved, their eyes locked, expressing things they didn’t want to say out loud. Promising, hoping, that they’d really be alright. Dean was the first to break away, and he shook his head slightly. “G’night, Cas,” he said quietly as he closed the door.

“Good night,” Cas replied. He stood still as he listened to the click of the door and the sound of Dean’s retreating footsteps. The rhythmic drum of his heart was loud in his ears when the silence of the night wrapped him up once more. Cas chalked this, and his slight dizziness, up to his rising fever, and he crawled back in his bed.  
The remainder of his night was filled with feverish fragments of dreams, just too far from reach to grasp and understand, but always filled with the same familiar face.

***

Dean slammed the trunk of the Impala shut. He’d made sure that their stash of salt, oil and holy water was restocked, and that there were plenty of bullets and guns. Cas handed him the last two bags. One filled with lore books and scrolls, the other filled with food and water for the ride. Dean placed them on the backseat, huffing as he lifted the bag with books.

“Jesus, how many books did you pack?” he asked Sam.

“We need to be prepared. The sword piece will be heavily warded so we need to make sure we’ve got the necessary spells.”

Dean closed the door and shot his brother a look. “Usually you just look it up on the Internet. What’s up with the portable library?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Death Valley is in the middle of a desert. I doubt we’ll even have phone reception, let alone Wi-Fi.”

“Okay.” Dean held his hands up in surrender and opened the door to the driver’s seat. “Well, middle of the desert or no, we’re going.” He got in the car and slammed the door shut behind him.  
Before Cas could crawl in the backseat, the engine came to life with a low growl.

They’d be on the road till nightfall, and that was if Dean speeded. When they emerged from the underground bunker, Cas saw that the sun hadn’t even started to rise yet. The birds were only just waking up, ruffling their feathers to shake the morning dew.

“Sammy, how far is it again to Death Valley?” Dean inquired as he steered onto the road.

“Almost 1300 miles,” Sam said with a sigh. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

Dean smiled. “I need nothing but a stretch of asphalt and my Baby.” With that, he stepped on the gas pedal and surged down the road, sending Cas flying back against his seat.

“Careful!” he yelped as he struggled with his seatbelt.

Dean laughed at him, and eyed him in the rearview mirror, his eyes twinkling. “What’s wrong, Cas? Scared?”

Cas abruptly let go of the seatbelt and shot Dean a challenging look. “Never,” he replied.

“Good, ‘cause we can go a lot faster than this once we hit the Interstate.”

Sam sighed resignedly. “Just don’t run anyone over.”

***

The road flew by as Dean drove, and Cas quietly listened as he sang along to his favorite songs, acted out drum solos and nodded his head to the beat.

“ _Sweet home Alabama,_ ” he belted, hitting Sam on the arm to get him to sing along. “ _Where the skies are so blue!_ ”

Sam laughed. “We’re in Colorado, Dean.”

“ _Sweet home Alabama!_ – What’s that, I can’t here ya, Sam. – _Lord, I’m coming home to you._ ”

Cas felt a smile form on his face and an inexplicable heat creeped up the back of his neck. He rubbed a hand over his neck and cleared his throat as he averted his eyes. The music turned down slightly.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked worriedly. “Is your fever rising again? You look a little flushed, buddy.”

Cas’s throat felt dry and it hurt when he tried to swallow. “I’m fine,” he rasped. Dean raised his eyebrow, looking thoroughly unconvinced, so Cas cleared his throat again. “I feel fine,” he tried again. The longer this fever lasted, the more irritated Cas became. His body had never before betrayed him like this. Not without reason.

“I can pull over if you want some fresh air. It’s no problem,” Dean said, already switching back to the right lane.

“You don’t have to,” Cas insisted.

Dean’s eyes flitted between him and the road for a moment. “You sure?”

“Dean, I said I’m fine,” Cas snapped. “You don’t have to worry about me because of this ailment. I’ve battled angels, demons and the Devil himself, I think I can fight a pathogen just fine.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dean said, offended. “I’m just concerned ‘cause you’re not used to being human. But, damn, I’ll back off, alright.”

“You didn’t care last time.” It’d slipped out before Cas could stop it. He didn’t know why he’d said it and he felt his chest twist when he caught the hurt look that Dean shot him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Cas said quickly. “I’m sorry, I–”

“No, don’t go saying you didn’t mean it,” Dean spat. “I thought we’d left that in the past, Cas. You know I had my reasons when I said you couldn’t stay in the bunker last time you were human.”

“I know,” Cas said sincerely, shooting Dean an apologizing look. “I’m sorry.”

Dean’s hands clenched around the steering wheel and Cas could see the muscles shifting in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. In his eyes, Cas could see the inner struggle Dean was having; he wanted to say more, but he didn’t want to fight. “Just, don’t be a dick about it, okay? I still feel guilty for what you had to go through,” he said finally. He turned his eyes back on the road, blindly staring at the broken white lines on the asphalt and the tail lights of the car far in front of him.

Cas sighed. “You don’t have to.”

“I do, okay?!” Dean yelled, swerving the car in his anger. Sam’s arm shot out to grab the wheel, but Dean batted his hand away. “I feel guilty all the time for every goddamn thing. You fucking died multiple times for us, you gave up everything you had just to be stuck with us in a car while being hunted by every evil son of a bitch out there. There was the Apocalypse, Purgatory, the Angel factions, the Mark of Cain, the Darkness. Cas, you were possessed by the Devil because of us!” Dean paused to collect himself, staring at Cas through the rearview mirror.  
“So, yes, I’m worried about you. ‘Cause this – the way you’re feeling right now? It’s just another thing I blame myself for.”

Cas could feel a lump forming in his throat, and it was hard to push out the words. “Dean…” His voice cracked and broke on his chapped lips, sounding fragile. He shook his head. “None of it is your fault. I chose this,” he said quietly. “I rebelled because I believed in you. I chose to stay and fight because, through you, I learned the truth about humanity.” Cas paused, looking between Sam and Dean. He didn’t know how to tell them what he felt. He didn’t know how to word why he threw away Heaven for a life on the run with them; two human beings who seemed so insignificant in the vast expanse of the age-old Galaxy.

“God wanted the Angels to be humanity’s shepherds. They were never that. You two… You were. You are humanity’s shepherds. You save the world. You rescue, you heal, fix, guard… You sacrifice your own comfort to do this thankless job, and nobody will even know you prevented Armageddon more than once.” Cas leaned forward in his seat and placed a hand on either of their shoulders.  
“You do what I was supposed to do since the beginning. You taught me what’s right and wrong. You taught me how to care, how to love.” Cas saw a tear fall down Dean’s cheek, slipping down his jaw and dripping onto his jacket.

“If I had to do it all over again, I would chose to go with you. I will always chose to go with you, so don’t ever blame yourself. It is _my_ choice, Dean.”

Dean’s lips trembled, and he pursed them, too stubborn to let the tears fall. His knuckles had turned white from gripping the steering wheel too hard and his shoulder was tense under Cas’s hand. Cas gently squeezed, encouraging him to speak, and Dean nodded. “Okay,” he croaked quietly, catching Cas’s eye in the mirror. Cas gave him a reassuring smile. “Okay,” repeated Dean. He dragged his hand over his jaw to wipe away the tear track, and an awkward laugh bubbled from his throat.

“Huh, I was just asking about your fever, how did it get to this?” he remarked. “Sammy, remember when we used to say ‘no chick-flick moments’ when stuff like this came up?”

Sam hummed. “Yeah, but you love chick-flicks,” he said, patting his brother’s knee.

“Bite me,” Dean shot back.

“It’s good to have these conversations, Dean. It certainly beats bottling up your feelings.”

“Okay, thanks, Mr. Shrink. I’ll remember that, but next time I expect one of those fancy couches to lay down on when we get all emotional,” Dean quipped. He was trying to lighten the mood for Sam, who sat awkwardly by his side, but Cas could still feel the tightness in his shoulder.

“You mean a chaise longue?”

Cas gently squeezed Dean’s shoulder again, rolling his thumb into the tight muscle and willing it to relax. His other hand slid off Sam’s shoulder and rested on the back of the seat.

“If that’s what it’s called in fancy-speak, then yes.”

Cas could feel Dean’s shoulder relaxing as he moved his thumb, taking the strain away as he bantered with Sam. After a minute or so, Dean patted Cas’s hand. He was looking at him through the mirror again, his eyes calm and sincere.

“Thank you, Cas,” he said. And Cas knew that it meant a lot more than Dean was making it seem like to Sam. He saw that Dean was leaving out the words ‘for everything’, because he knew Cas understood.

Cas smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is supposed to be the entire trip to Death Valley, but I said I'd upload by Tuesday, so here you go. :) I guess I'll cut it in two parts for now and put them together later. The rest should be up by Friday.
> 
> Again, feedback is much appreciated. I'm fairly new to writing so I'd love to hear your opinion!
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Stella


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